Surprise, at first, held mute Edwina's tongue,
And many changes on his theme he rung,
Ere she could pour her chaste, her proud disdain,
Or check with cold contempt his odious strain.
At length she spoke. So once, Judean Fair!
Thou turn'd'st upon the sober, hoary pair
Who slunk, with wanton thoughts and aspect grave,
To watch thee, rising from the gelid wave.
Insulted Virtue thunder'd from thy tongue,
And o'er thy eye indignant lightnings hung,
Swift came the vollied speech;—grand was thy tone,
And Chastity in bright effulgence shone.
Around the ivory form dark myrtles grew,
To snatch thee from the gazing monster's view;
Through their deep foliage came thy pointed words,
Thy glance was fire—thy sentences were swords!
Such were Edwina's tones, her look, her air,
Striking the young seducer with despair!
Yes, young he was, in beauty's fullest prime,
Untarnish'd yet, untouch'd by withering time!
O'er his red cheek soft dimples playful ran,
Whilst grace and sinewy strength proclaimed The man!
His charms, his passion, sweet Edwina spurned,
And with unfeigned abhorrence, stately turned;
Then walk'd with mien composed across the moor,
Though tremblings seized her heart, and doubtings sore.
But Edgar soon she heard, step quick behind,
And then to mad'ning fears her soul resigned.
She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings,
When from its southern portal first it springs—
Flying, as borne upon the billowy air,
Urged by distraction on, and blank despair.
Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent,
Kept closely in the track the fair one went;
Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet
Would soon retard a course so wondrous fleet—
He thought aright, and in his felon arms,
Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms.
Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame,
When with the quickness of devouring flame,
A furious wolf from out the bordering wood
With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood—
The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine,
Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign;
His clinging sides confessed his famished state,
And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate.
The coward fled!—O! now my pen forbear,
Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!—
The wolf's fell teeth—but O! I check the song,
Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong.
The savage, starting from his bleeding prey,
Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away;
Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh,
And forc'd—too late! the unglutted beast to fly.
Those steps were Henry's!—he first reached the spot,
For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot!
He saw her marble bosom torn—her mangled head;
He saw—mysterious fate! Edwina dead!
Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light,
Would shed a lustre on pale Sorrow's night—
Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech,
Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach!
The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord,
Now streaked with flowing blood—O! thought abhorred!
Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang,
And give him more than death's last, rending pang.
His cries of agony spread o'er the plain,
And reached the distant undulating main;
His screams of anguish struck with terror more
Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar.
Vain his attendants sooth—in vain they pray,
In stormy grief he wearied down the day.
A furious maniac now he raged around,
And tore the bushes from the embracing ground,
Then spent, all prone upon the earth he fell,
And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell;
When sorrow could articulate its grief,
When words allowed a transient short relief,
"Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst,
"And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst!
"Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore,
"The purest heart of woman ever bore!"
"Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round,
And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound.
Thus, to this hour, through every changing age,
Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage,
The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen,
From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green—
Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height,
And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight;
The Bassenthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round,
And rocks of Buttermere protect the ground,
Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall,
Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call—
From peak to peak they wildly burst away,
And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay.
Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone,
Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known.
For faithful lads ne'er pass, nor tender maid,
But the soft rite of tears is duly paid;
Each can the story to the traveller tell,
And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell—
Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among,
And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!"
[LADY EVA AND THE GIANT.]
A LEGEND OF YEWDALE.
AS you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell.
Some few hundred years ago, the inhabitants of these contiguous dales were startled from their propriety, if they had any, by a report that one of the Troutbeck giants had built himself a hut, and taken up his abode in the lonely dell of the Tarns, above Yewdale Head. Of course you have read the history and exploits of the famous Tom Hickathrift, and remembering that he was raised at Troutbeck, you will not be much surprised when I tell you that it was always famous for a race of extraordinary size and strength; for even in these our own puny days, the biggest man in Westmoreland is to be found in that beautiful vale.
The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality—answered to the cognomen of "Girt (great) Will o' t' Tarns," and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to assist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness.